More than half my peers are married. Sooner or later, whether I like it or not I will be too. I have been preparing my self since the age of 8 for that moment. I keep reminding myself, this is not my home, this is just a temporary shelter, a shelter for a refugee. A refugee who has been waiting to be a part of someone's life, a refugee who is waiting to call a place her home, a refugee who is just lost and living life as a nomad.
When I was younger, I was pampered, treated like a princess, never been yelled at, given the privilege to complain about anything any time to the king (My dad). Whenever my mom yells at me for not doing my homework, I pick up the phone and call my dad. My brother and I have a fight, run to the phone to call my dad. I don't get what I want even if its a chocolate, call my dad. My dad was the solution for all my life's complicated problems ( I was a kid; they were huge problems for me back then :P). My brother hated this privilege, I had. He was treated differently (only by my dad, everyone else loved him.) He was fair, always a topper in class, listened to everything my mom said and a very obedient boy (unlike me). He eventually got furious with the way I was treated, he shouted back and asked my dad "why don't you ever yell or beat, papa(yes, that was my pet name)" My dad who was very angry at my brother for some reason I don't remember, immediately cooled down, looked at me with a heavy heart and said "Papa, will not be a part of us, once she gets married" I was probably 7 or 8. That was a very intense sentence for me to take in. (Even just recollecting that memory right now, bought tears to my eyes. *breathing heavily, holding back tears*) I did not know how to react as a kid but I had to accept the fact that as a girl, as an Indian, I had to accept that fact. Even though it did not impact my life immediately, this memory got stuck in my head as I grew up. When I had to leave home for my undergrad, when I had to leave the country for my graduation, when I had to change jobs from one state to another, every time I had to sign the lease for a new house that I moved in to, I tell myself; this is temporary, just hang in there till you get married, you will have a place you can actually call "Home".
When I was younger, I was pampered, treated like a princess, never been yelled at, given the privilege to complain about anything any time to the king (My dad). Whenever my mom yells at me for not doing my homework, I pick up the phone and call my dad. My brother and I have a fight, run to the phone to call my dad. I don't get what I want even if its a chocolate, call my dad. My dad was the solution for all my life's complicated problems ( I was a kid; they were huge problems for me back then :P). My brother hated this privilege, I had. He was treated differently (only by my dad, everyone else loved him.) He was fair, always a topper in class, listened to everything my mom said and a very obedient boy (unlike me). He eventually got furious with the way I was treated, he shouted back and asked my dad "why don't you ever yell or beat, papa(yes, that was my pet name)" My dad who was very angry at my brother for some reason I don't remember, immediately cooled down, looked at me with a heavy heart and said "Papa, will not be a part of us, once she gets married" I was probably 7 or 8. That was a very intense sentence for me to take in. (Even just recollecting that memory right now, bought tears to my eyes. *breathing heavily, holding back tears*) I did not know how to react as a kid but I had to accept the fact that as a girl, as an Indian, I had to accept that fact. Even though it did not impact my life immediately, this memory got stuck in my head as I grew up. When I had to leave home for my undergrad, when I had to leave the country for my graduation, when I had to change jobs from one state to another, every time I had to sign the lease for a new house that I moved in to, I tell myself; this is temporary, just hang in there till you get married, you will have a place you can actually call "Home".
No comments:
Post a Comment